“Who did you say today’s guest speaker is again?” she asked, glancing at her watch.
“Graham Greene.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. I met him once—he works in Fitzroy as an air raid warden.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes, that’s why his prose is so rich and detailed, and why he’s so popular with the soldiers.”
When the cab stopped, a doorman in a brown-and-gold suit and top hat opened their door and sheltered them from the rain with an oversized umbrella, escorting them up the stairs into the sleek marble lobby. Theo led the way toward the back of the hotel, passing through the Promenade, a spectacular room transformed into an intimate dining space by decorative columns, gilt filigree and ornate moldings. Guests sat on high-backed upholstered chairs and chintz banquettes, while a professional musician played Schubert on a grand piano. Oversized lamps, floor-to-ceiling mirrors and sweeping velvet curtains added to the magnificence of a room equal to any he’d seen in New York. They passed white linen tables with cake stands five levels high, full of pastries so petite they looked too dainty to eat. All the way down the room, lacquered consoles held gigantic vases of flowers from where waiters balanced trays of silverware.
When they reached the doors to the ballroom, Alice stopped to stare; they were decorated with sculpted pewter flowers, delicate pearl embellishments in the center of the petals unlike anything Theo had ever seen. Then he opened one of the doors, and the ornate mirrored entrance of the ballroom came into view—and, with it, a dazzling blast of sunlight and a torrent of conversation. He held the door wide, smiling discreetly as Alice gaped at the Corinthian columns with their regal marble and gold leaf, and the painted walls. He had to admit to being impressed too; everywhere they looked, plinths held oriental vases overflowing with fresh blooms, and Venetian-style mirrors adorned elegant ivory walls. “Shall we?” he asked Alice.
She gave him a dazed smile and walked in.
He soon found the board that displayed a seating plan in exquisite calligraphy, and he spent a few moments running through the names to see if the people he had hoped would attend were present. He wouldn’t recognize them by sight, but if he knew their tables he could go around making introductions as soon as the speeches were over.
They were the first guests at their table. He pulled out Alice’s chair and she sat down, smoothing her skirt and placing her bag and gas mask over the seat back. He still had trouble remembering to carry one everywhere, but Londoners were all used to it.
After he sat next to Alice, he glanced around the half-full ballroom, nodding discreetly to a woman standing in a group a short distance away. “That’s Christina Foyle,” he said in a hushed tone. She was of average height and build with light-brown hair that had been teased into a shape both higher and fuller than seemed necessary for a lunchtime function. Even from where they sat, he could see her ears and neck glistening with diamonds—too many, in fact, and he could tell that Alice didn’t approve either.
She looked at her watch again, gripping her wrist as though there was somewhere else she needed to be.
“Mixed crowd,” he said, leaning closer and catching the light floral scent of her perfume.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” she said, glancing around. “Who do you think they are—politicians, industry leaders, literary aficionados?”
“All of the above,” he replied, gazing more intently at the assembled men and women, the servicemen and civilians.
The next time he looked at Alice, her chin was tilted up at him, an expression of curiosity on her face. “I’ve always wondered what it’s really like, New York. Not the version they show off for visitors, but the real one that you live in.”
“There are writers who could do it justice far better than me.”
“You could try.”
“Wine?” he asked, as a waiter appeared at their side. She shook her head, and Theo nodded toward his glass, which the waiter filled as he talked. “It’s an incredible city—I mean, London is beautiful, but New York, well, there’s an energy to it. Even walking the few blocks to work is invigorating. And visiting the dockyards when one of the ships is coming in—that’s positively euphoric.” He smiled. “Really, though, it’s spectacular, especially when the dockworkers and their families are all lined up on the quay, waving flags and streamers. It’s the gateway to America, but it feels like the center of the world.”
“It looks that way in photos too.”
“Maybe you’ll visit one day.”
“I don’t think that’s very likely,” she said dismissively. “Tell me about where you live.”
“It’s all right if you don’t mind traffic jams. It’s on the west side. Manhattan is made up of hundreds of neighborhoods, so you don’t need to go far to find a grocery store or a restaurant.”
“Sounds convenient.”
“It’s more than that. They’re like villages—you find your tribe, and you stick to it.”
“I like the sound of that,” she said, playing with the stem of her empty glass.
“There’s an area known as Book Row, where all the bookstores are, dozens of them. It’s like Charing Cross Road, but much, much bigger. It would take you a week to work your way around them. It’s an enclave for booksellers and book lovers.”
“Maybe I should come, then. Where is it?”
“Fourth Avenue, between Union Square and Astor Place.”
“I’ve never heard of those places.”
“Well, it’s crazy. There are seven blocks of bookstores.”
“That does sound crazy.”
“There’re a lot of books in the world!”
“I don’t even think a lifetime of reading would be enough to get through just one shop.”
“I guess not.” Theo took another sip of wine. “There’s one store that sells only cookbooks—that’s on the corner of Astor. Then there’s At the Sign of the Sparrow, which sells just theater books.”
“That’s marvelous!”
Alice seemed much less anxious now, delighted by his descriptions of Book Row. He could see she immediately understood that it was unlike anywhere else in the world: store upon dusty store with stands spilling onto the street—Lowenstein’s, Mosk’s, the Strand—all peopled with fascinating, eccentric intellectuals and bibliophiles, students and writers. She laughed when he told her that Friendlies had the unfriendliest owners.
“Charing Cross Road just isn’t going to seem the same now,” Alice said with a rare genuine smile. But then she stole another look at her watch, and he wondered again where she really wanted to be. She caught his eye, and her face flushed. “You haven’t told me how you got involved with publishing,” she said quickly, before he had the chance to ask what was going on.
“I was a student in thirty-three when Hitler burned the books. ‘Literary holocaust,’ the press called it. We were all horrified.” Tens of thousands of books had been destroyed at the Bebelplatz in Berlin, setting off a chain of similar events around Germany. Millions of books were annihilated, and it had caused outrage around the world. “I’d always loved books, but that was when I understood the power they held to alter lives, and history.”
“I remember . . .” Alice murmured, deep sorrow in her eyes.
“I don’t know what happened here, but Americans reacted by donating millions of books to the armed services. I remember standing on the steps of the New York Public Library and watching as all these famous New Yorkers and celebrities turned up to make donations. It was really something.” He broke into a smile, the memory rekindling the passion he’d felt. “Some wars can be won in the mind as well as on the battlefield.”
Most of the tables were full now. Christina Foyle stood up, the crowd grew quiet, and the opening address began, then a discreet army of waitstaff filed in with the first course of fresh English asparagus and hollandaise. He couldn’t ignore how Al
ice kept glancing at her watch and fidgeting. She ate quickly and was sociable enough with the other guests, but he found he couldn’t sustain a conversation with her. Then, halfway through Graham Greene’s speech, she stared at the door and shifted in her seat.
He leaned close. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry, Theo, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to go.” She slid to the edge of her seat, grabbing her gas mask and bag. “I just remembered something terribly important that I need to do.”
“Surely it can wait?”
“I’m afraid not—it’s something I should have paid more attention to before. Entirely my fault.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, thank you. It’s something I have to do on my own.”
And then she was gone.
* * *
It was still raining when the luncheon finished, but Theo decided to walk back to the office. He wanted some fresh air as he reflected on the valuable introductions he’d made and conversations he’d had. His pocket was full of business cards, and he’d seen Sir Duncan, so the luncheon had been a success from a business point of view. But for some reason, he felt deflated.
He sidestepped another puddle, his hat pulled on tightly and his collar upturned as he kept his head down, thinking about his conversation with Alice. Her interest in his life had surprised him, yet she’d been so unwilling to talk about her own. She’d only become animated when they spoke about the local publishing industry, telling him how it had started alongside St. Paul’s and Paternoster Row way back in the sixteenth century, until one night in 1940 when seventeen publishing offices were destroyed. She spoke with sadness as she told him how it had changed the landscape of the British book trade forever. Duncan Sutherland’s painting Twisted Girders had become synonymous with that tragic night and was circulated widely in newspapers and magazines; Theo was familiar with the image.
The only time Alice spoke about herself was when she talked about her favorite parts of London, and he realized he was walking one of them now, tracing her recommended route through Mayfair back to Russell Square. The journey stretched to places he’d not yet visited; it took him through the streets and alleyways of Soho, past fabric shops and department stores, picture-book houses and street traders, and he felt the pulse of the London she’d described.
Theo’s footsteps quickened the closer he got to the office, as he kept returning to the same question: where had she gone so urgently, and had she returned to work?
He left the taller commercial buildings and shops of the main road behind, making his way along the adjacent streets, and his thoughts turned to home and the difficult conversation he’d had with Virginia the night before. It was hard enough to make an international call, let alone limit their conversation to five minutes, and six days had gone by without any contact. Last night she’d told him how much she missed him, but when he’d echoed the words they hadn’t rung true. Why hadn’t they felt sincere? He reached for a recent memory of being with Virginia: at the waterfront, where they often stood hand in hand as they watched trading ships and passenger boats weave across the harbor.
By the time he reached Russell Square, the rain had stopped, the sun leapfrogging through the clouds. His imaginary walk with Virginia had taken them along the wooden boardwalk as fishing boats unloaded their hauls and transatlantic planes skimmed the surface of the Hudson as they landed. He could see the sunlight dance across the rippling water, the ships and lighters crisscrossing on their inter-harbor runs, but to his surprise he wasn’t hand in hand with Virginia anymore—it was Alice by his side.
Theo stopped walking and ran a hand across his face, the roughness of one day’s stubble already coming through. What was he thinking? He told himself he had briefly mistaken his professional admiration for something more. He now understood why the team had fought to get Alice back: her clear-eyed honesty was helping them to create finely nuanced books that made a positive difference in these turbulent times.
As he looked at the brass plaque bearing the Partridge name, something caught in his throat. He was finding it increasingly difficult to contemplate Walter’s threat to shut the office down when it really felt as if they were close to turning things around. Hopefully they would soon accomplish that, and then he would return to New York and put Alice out of his mind.
Twenty-two
Olive had left the Daily Mail office by the time Alice arrived, so she hurried straight down to the basement, nearly tripping on the stairs in her rush. The luncheon had dragged on far too long, and even with Graham Greene as speaker Alice would have gladly passed it up. A note had been delivered to her office from Olive just before she’d left, saying the journalist had news but not giving any other details. There had been no progress for nearly a week, and no communication from the wardens either, and now this. Olive had asked her to come in after the luncheon, but it seemed she might be too late.
The underground library was darker than usual, the overcast skies creating deeper shadows in the sparse rooms, and the desk was unattended. Alice waited anxiously for Elizabeth to appear, desperately hoping Olive had good news.
Footsteps approached. “Alice, I’m so sorry,” said Elizabeth, walking out of the gloom. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”
“Not at all, it’s fine. I got a note from Olive . . . You have something for me?”
“Ah, yes. Here it is.” The librarian reached for a pile of manila folders and handed the top one to Alice with a smile. “How’s the book coming along?”
“Very well, thank you. I—”
The lights flickered, and a rumbling grew louder as the sound of an Underground train closed in around them, transforming the space into an eerie cavern. They looked at each other, and Alice shuddered as they waited motionless for the noise to fade and the light to be restored, Elizabeth’s pale eyes still visible through the near darkness. “You always wonder, don’t you,” she whispered, “if they’re coming back.”
Alice knew she was referring to the Luftwaffe and the raids that were still so fresh in their minds.
“I know . . . but we’re okay.” Alice squeezed Elizabeth’s arm reassuringly. “And thank you. I really appreciate this.”
She left quickly, before the librarian had the chance to reply, and settled at a table in the adjoining room. A handwritten note from Olive was clipped inside the folder: I thought this might be of interest for the book. P.S. It’s been cleared for use.
Alice felt completely deflated and then a flash of anger; all this time she’d believed Olive could give her leads, but these were just articles she’d already seen.
Only when she calmed down did she realize the misunderstanding was entirely hers: these were clippings she hadn’t seen before. She scanned them, desperately searching for a new clue, the musty newspaper reminding her of the time and distance that separated her from Eadie.
What had Olive noticed that she’d missed? She’d spent days down here researching all she could about baby farmers.
Another slip of paper was tucked behind the note: a list from Olive with names and districts, some of which Alice recognized from other articles. She spread the clippings out across the desk and saw that the same three names kept appearing. She glanced over the articles again, noticing that the offenders were all suspected baby farmers because their charges were in relation to children, for cruelty and manslaughter by willfully withholding food.
It was wrong for her to have doubted Olive—this was just what she’d been waiting for, some names and places to start looking. But she had expected more. Three seemed such a small number compared to what she’d learned of how widespread the practice had become, and these were just the ones who had been caught.
Alice’s gaze focused on the dark stone walls as she thought how unwelcoming it was below ground. At least it was safe here. She shuddered at the thought of approaching these criminals in
their homes, but there wasn’t any other way; these were the people she should be going after, the ones who had been investigated before—the ones who could be out there, still operating.
She made her way through to the other room, where Elizabeth was filing. “Did Olive leave me anything else . . . another folder of clippings, perhaps?”
“I don’t think so. There were plenty that she requested, but she told me to put them back.” Elizabeth glanced at the stack of documents on the counter, the same pile from which she had retrieved Alice’s folder.
“Do you mind if I take a look?” Alice asked.
“I suppose not. I was just about to put them back, but it can wait.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, of course, knock yourself out,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Anything that helps put these bastards behind bars.”
Back at the desk, Alice spent the next hour working her way through the folders. The articles made bleak reading, all ending in the conviction of the suspected baby farmer for the death of a child. The headline of an article in the Cheltenham Chronicle read: Baby Farmer Sentenced to Ten Years’ Penal Servitude. The brief article recorded that Jessie Byers, forty-three, had been found guilty of the manslaughter of Reginald Turnbull, aged five months; after the prisoner adopted the baby, he was given laudanum and abandoned.
Alice’s eyes were dewy, and she strained to read the small print in the gloomy light, while her body grew rigid, stiffening in protest at the awful stories. It was almost too much to bear, the thought of these poor mites suffering so horrifically—and she struggled not to think that anything like this might happen to Eadie.
The next article was an older piece about a conviction some years earlier and she instantly recognized the name as the couple Olive had warned her against.
When We Meet Again Page 16
